The Cross of Faith and Love
by Dr. Captain Pepper
Summary: Left in our crumbling Kingdom of Italy, waiting for the funds to immigrate, our only choice is to attend church and pray. Surely the Lord will bless us for such patience. OC x Knuckle
1. Prologue

**Howdy howdy  
><strong>How are you?

So if you know me, author wise, you know all my other series are on pause while I write for NaNoWriMo. But in the middle of writing, I decided that I would post what I'm writing.

I personally think this is on of my best series I will ever for write for FFnet. With that said, if you think something isn't right (for the time period), please let me know. I want this story to be spectacular.

**Protocol:  
><strong>word count: 845

[I don't own any KHR characters]

No betas. Not allowed since it's for a contest.

=Advice/Comments are Loved=

**.Captain.**

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

"_Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Help us to be mindful of all our blessings, and the needs of those who have less, through Christ, our Lord. Amen."_

At the table, in which I am seated, are the presences of ten. Myself included, as well as Mother's unborn child, make eleven and twelve. Hand in hand, with them raised above the bread and wine, we sit at the large table and listen to Mother recite our blessings to the Lord for such a gracious meal. We sit as a reunited family. We sit as a soon splitting family.

Mother finally takes the first bite of the marinated eel, and the rest of us join. The fork in my left-hand raises, the eel slips through my barely open mouth, and my palette erupts to its madness. Pepper, with minute flavorings of balsamic vinegar and garlic among other indecipherable ingredients are making my jaw twinge. This is a good twinge; I smile and graciously inform her of the quality. Mother's ability to prepare food is irrefutable. Such a splendid skill is desirable.

After a modest reply is given in return, my multitude of brothers join in unison to sing of mother's skill. The five boys and men snuff out my only sister's hushed thank you. Father, Nonna, and Nonno all remain quiet. Their attention is evidently on the food. How I wish I could focus so. Such attention is hard for me, especially as I watch my two older brothers, Antonio and Ciro, playfully tease Massimo.

Although Massimo and I are but 10 months apart, my intelligence seems to be most vast. Only a fool would choose a seat between older brothers as diabolical as them. Watching Massimo partake in their scrutiny more only brings forth inaudible chuckles from myself, and audible ones from my youngest brother, to my left, Vito. His large grin and almond-shaped eyes are inescapable.

Then a cough sounds. The bite in my mouth stays in place, whilst my eyes dart to Nonno. His dark, leathery hand is cupped over his mouth, but under the survey of many eyes. Knowing his health is bad, one can't help but wonder how much longer he has. Finishing my bite in silence, I subtly gaze upon a hand gently take his shoulder. The man with a slender face, nicely kept hair donning his widow's peak, and striking green eyes asks if Nonno is okay.

My father, sitting at the head of the table, looks across to Mother while listening for Nonno's response. Only he, Mother, and Nonna can understand the aged completely. His northern accent is very heavy. Antonio can understand a good portion, as well as Oriana. His words, though a mystery to more than half of the room, are ones that are held to the highest esteem. They are nuances of grumbled Greek to my ears—held to the highest esteem.

Silent is the room as Nonno mumbles soft words to my Father, that is, until a fork clangs. Except Nonno's, all eyes dart to Nicodemo. He is the second youngest (for now) and, by far, the clumsiest of us all. He is also the most jovial. As the spitting image of my father apologizes with his bewildered expression, I notice Ciro's utmost desire to smack the boy sitting next to him. Then again, it is hard to not notice Ciro.

Being the only blonde in our generation, Nonna being the blonde in hers, Ciro truly is the epitome of handsome. God has blessed us, giving our family such a handsome and charismatic boy. Though it is unfortunate that Ciro wasn't blessed with intelligence as well. He would be a very fearsome man if bequeathed with this trait too.

Dinner goes back into procession after mother lightly chides Nico to practice mindfulness. She then chides my inability to cease 'cloud drifting.' My face scrunches, and I quickly take another bite. The sautéed tomatoes taste sublime; I let the morsel sit on my palette to fully experience it. My experience is unsettled with Antonio's soft foot tap. My eyebrows furrow, and I am chided once more. A head tilt towards my food to veil my huff. Cretinous brother Antonio—he and Ciro both plot against on a communal standard—no one is safe under his sharp eyes. With a glance towards the jesters, I see that Massimo is just as guilty. Terrible brothers I have been given by the Lord.

"Children, do ready yourselves for your nightly prayers and slumber. Tomorrow is the day our Church will meet its new Pastor."

In unison, we all answer our Father. "Yes, Father."

None would dare give any other answer, since tomorrow is the day he, Ciro, and Antonio all leave for America. Nightly I have prayed for their safety. Nightly, we have all been given reassurances that the tribulations we are facing are only ones of temporary status. Oh, how I keep steadfast my faith and patience on this reassurance. Surely, the Lord will bless me for my patience.


	2. Chapter 1

**Since I'm running a little behind**  
>You're even getting chapter one today too.<p>Thinking about it more, you guys might be getting chapters daily lol. I've got to get 50,000 words of this done by the end of the month. So wish me luck!<p>

**Now Let's Do Some Protocol:**  
>word count: 2,112<p>

[I do not own any KHR characters]

No betas since this is for a contest

=Advice/Comments are Loved=

**.Captain.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

The morning is cold. Tis a cold morning because of the endless clouds that shroud above the boat dock. Tis a cold morning because it is the first of November. Tis a cold morning because we are watching them march towards the unknown. Such a romantic journey; there are times that I feel I should have been born a boy, like this present moment. Suppose I was born a boy as well, then as well, I would be embarking on their journey. Well, on the contrary, since Massimo is older, I would be left behind and Massimo would go. What is the word for such a situation?

"Damiana, do pay proper respects to your parting Father and brothers."

My attention averts to Mother. "Of course, do forgive me."

Why must I always be lost in thought?

Now watching them calmly amble upon the gangway to the ship, a smirk curls upon my lips as Ciro and Antonio taunt one another whilst their gait remains slow. They, along with Father, are three among many men, women, and children on their way to America. It seems they are happily taking their time to board the ship. Of course, who would want to leave Napoli at such a time? The Kingdom of Italy is only crumbling, for lack of a softer description.

Ciro and Antonio goad and prattle more until Father finally turns around. Their bodies straighten like wooden planks to Father's glance, and they slacken once Father turns forward once more. The antics of those two, though much of a nuisance, are very entertaining. But I am not worried about the loss of entertainment. Our precious Nico provides heaps and bounds of amusing moments to the family. My vision slides to the left, catching a glimpse of the boy, which currently clouds my thoughts, fidgeting and speaking to himself. I close my eyes and smirk, trying with all that encompasses me to not giggle.

Moment upon moment passes as we watch the three finally board the train, but Mother proclaims that we must wait till the ship actually leaves. This brings worry to me, seeing as today is a Holy Day of Obligation. Is it not far more sinful to be truant or tardy to Mass, than to wait for the ship to finally leave? My worry never passes my lips, but it looms heavily in my stomach. Everyone else alongside myself shows despondency to the piece of our family now missing.

Finally the large metal ship bellows its farewell to us all, and Mother asks Nonno for the time. He, being the only one of us with a watch, softly mumbles in his archaic tongue. Mother translates his answer to us as one of urgency—we are going to be late to Mass. I knew this would be the result.

So we scamper, we scuttle, and we scurry to the Cathedral as quickly as Nonna's and Nonno's footsteps will allow. Almost to the structure made of white stone and ornate stained glass windows, we witness that we are not the only ones tardy. Maybe they were seeing family members off as well? There really was no time available to satisfy this curiosity, so my lungs only blew out air empty of words.

Our feet lightly trample up the steps, except Vito's, who is now being carried by Massimo to keep up. Massimo gets to the large wooden doors first, and opens one for us to all to enter. Nicodemo has a defining moment, where he actually holds open the second door for us all. I hold Nonna's soft, aged hand to lead her inside behind Oriana. Our ears all hold the sound of the organ's opening hymal.

I take a deep breath. I knew this would be the result.

After we all anoint ourselves in holy water, an older man, commonly known as the church's usher, quickly shepherds us to an empty pew. The fellow parishioners are on second verse of the canticle. In spite of feeling the need to move in haste, one by one we kneel, genuflect, and quietly take our seat on the dark stained bench. To everyone's seat taken, the bench creaks of wooden complaints. They are all because we are late.

Despite being late, I immediately join in song with the crowd. The lyrics to the hymn are deeply etched in my heart like fond memories of Father and I playing piano together. My voice cracks, and I clamp my mouth shut. I put a hand to my mouth as well before uttering an apology to my disgraceful singing and presently appearing tears. A small scan left and right makes me ware of the family's view to my finally rising sorrow. I am embarrassed beyond comparison.

I press my finger under my eyelids quickly, forcing the tears out before any one else can view my unsightliness. Mother soundlessly sighs and continues to sing; Massimo and Oriana stare a moment longer before returning to the song; and Nonna clasps my right hand within both of hers, giving me her silent comfort. I smile in return to her understanding. Doing so, I then realize Nico noticed nothing.

My lips dare not move as the song finishes and Monsignor Ricci comes to view. Next to him are two servers near Nico's age, Father Gallo, and an unknown face. Of course, the nameless man clad in a gold-trimmed cleric under his white alb is the new priest that has arrived to our diocese. How could I forget something so important?

"Our Father, The Almighty, we are gathered here today in solemnity of all saints. Solemnity to the saints that have lived by your word, reminding us all of your love and understanding, and solemnity to the saints that are destined to reveal themselves in the times ahead. May you bless us as you have blessed them. May you also help us to welcome Father Knuckle, a newly anointed priest that has joined our church. Please help us in showing our graciousness to his arrival. Let us pray."

Monsignor finishes the opening prayer to church and signals us to be seated. The hand gesture, like is Latin, is fluid and calming. Having a Monsignor, a priest that has worked with the pope himself and been anointed such a title, at our church is a truly wonderful gift. And now we have been given another priest? It makes me wonder what virtuous things we have done to earn such delightful gifts.

Another gesture, a head nod, comes from Monsignor, and Father Gallo treads toward the podium to profess the first reading. It is an excerpt from Revelation, which is not a book of particular interest—to myself. Revelation is dismal and dark book. I prefer readings from too many books even bother someone with listing them all, but Revelation is too sad for my tastes. Now on the thought more, if ever inquired, I would tell them that _Ecclesiastes_ and _Song of Solomon_ are my most favored of all the books. From those two alone, my heart cannot decide which one I love more.

"Let us stand to express our faith and gratitude to the Lord."

My mind has wandered once more. I cannot even begin to think of the names I wish to be called for being so scattered. The Lord will damn me if I don't contain myself. In lieu of my internal strife, I respond with everyone else to the Psalms spoken to us by the Monsignor. While my responses are fluent and concise, I notice that Oriana's Latin far more proficient than my own. Her dark brown hair, her hazel eyes, and her immense reasoning skills; Oriana will be a prize to the right suitor in eight years, when she becomes of age to court. Realizing that I am drifting again, I lightly snort and listen to the latter half of the second reading.

Finally the gospel comes, and our new priest with the questionable name wanders to the pulpit. Tall, almost black hair, hands covered in some kind of white material, and a… _silly_ piece of tape on his nose are the first things I take notice of outside his fast gait. He clears his throat and begins to recite a gospel from the book of Matthew in a Latin. His oration can be candidly described as unpracticed. I heard Vito ask Mother what language Father Knuckle was speaking. Mother hushed him with a single glare.

The newly appointed priest finishes the gospel and swiftly advances into the homily. I am apprehensive; the homily is my favored portion of Mass. With this anxiety is the instant guilt of such an assumption. Yes, his Latin is something he should consider taking supplemental lessons on, but his homily is exciting and invigorating. His words are filled with passion. I can only hope he really considers taking at least a minor practicum for his Latin; his preaching would be most enjoyable then.

Mass continues quickly after hearing such an interesting view on the gospel for today. Father Knuckle's advice on how to live with your heart full of extreme fervor for the Lord is something that has an enticing ring to it. Extreme fervor. Such an interesting choice of words. Maybe those are the words that can be used to describe his faith? I wonder. Now as we all begin exiting the pews to partake in Communion I keep doting on the appealing phrase.

I am not sure if is the how those particular words, out of all words that could have been used, were chosen, or if it is the way in which he said them, with such intensity and resolve, is what makes so very employed with them. But as I stand in front of him, calmly gazing in eyes I can only describe as warm honey, I see that the words match him extremely so. His eyes are winsome and endearing.

Holding up the Body of Christ in front of me, he questions, "The Body of Christ?"

"Amen."

I open my mouth to receive, and then promenade to the line where I will accept an offering of Christ's blood.

During my sip of the wine, formally known as the Blood of Christ, I watch Father Knuckle give a piece of the body to Mother from the corner of my eye. More or less, I do so in regard to his blessing he is giving to my Mother's belly. She takes the blessing graciously. Her eyes even disappear to the growing smile. The action makes me smile too.

Vito politely implores Father Knuckle to bless his belly too.

He insists it is for his hungry stomach.

From Communion is the Closing Prayer and Hymn. During the prayer I ask God to keep Father and my brothers safe until we meet again, and I also ask for him to help Knuckle with his Latin. Then I remind God that I need help with Mathematics, but I don't stress the need for him to help myself so much. To be selfless is to be holy. To fail another assessment, though, and Mother may show what it truly means to be holy. To the lingering thought is a clenching of my jaw.

As we leave the leave the beautiful structure among the other denizens of Napoli, I idly catch the silhouettes of our pastors. They are standing outside the entrance bidding farewells and shaking the hands of men who imply the desire to do so. Right in front of the exit, I tell Mother that I would like to welcome Father Knuckle. She tells me to go with Massimo.

Mother and Oriana lead Nonna and Nonno down the cathedral steps, with Nico and Vito trailing, while Massimo accompanies me. I wait patiently and Massimo waits tediously. He is used to accompanying me in my various ventures. Exactly at the time his first sigh escapes, my chance to compliment Father Knuckle comes. I smile.

"Father Knuckle?"

His eyes find me. "Yes, signorina."

"Excuse me for taking your time, but I wanted to welcome you to Napoli and convey my, my enjoyment of your sermon. Tis truly a blessing that God brought us a pastor with vitality so great as your own."

As I wait to hear a simple response in return, I am taken by complete surprise that the priest with bandaged hands gingerly clasps mine. Massimo appears unsure of such a response as well. Giving me a deep stare, Father Knuckle responds.

"Your passionate words have filled my heart like the sun, signorina. Thank you, and may God be with you always."

After a monetary pause, I counter, "And also with you, Father."


	3. Chapter 2

**Aye, 2nd Chapter** **Finally  
><strong>got sick... you know how that goes.

Hope everyone is enjoying the story so far. I know its style is slightly different from most Fanfiction for KHR, but I wanted to write this more in the fashion in which you see in classical styled writing. So let me know if you see anything weird, or incorrect of the time.

**Now for the Protocol:  
><strong>word count: 2,471

[I do not own any KHR characters]

I claim ownership of the OC Damiana Trussardi,  
>along with all concept associated with the story.<p>

No betas since this is contest writing.

=Advice/Comments are Loved=

**.Captain.**

* * *

><p> <strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Whilst exiting the church, my eyes drift. Though my body rears my family's steps, my eyes are far beyond theirs. Deep purple drapes and decorum are afloat within the Cathedral of sky-high ceilings and gothic-themed architecture. Vestments of concordant color are draped upon the shoulders of our pastors. Yesterday marked the nadir of Advent; today is simply Monday. It is a Monday, which has led me to the observation that I am feeling unusually ravenous. Ravenous for food—tis a time of fasting—because it is Advent.

Fasting is another thing that falls into the pile of concepts that instill no gust, like the Book of Revelation. I dare not speak of this, or let myself pry into this distaste of fasting much, for it is something Christ deems necessary to prepare for Christmas. Hmmm, Christmas… Christmas is oft a time that I find gleeful, but as of late, it is a muse leaving me with feelings of solace. Father won't be home for Christmas. Antonio and Ciro's presences will also be unaccounted. I wonder if my letter to them will make it in time.

A wind from outside, blasts past the open doors, chilling my face. I tense from the brisk bite, I shiver from its lingering grip, and I snort to its annoying whistle. Winter is among Revelation and fasting as well. The possibility of the school being toasty when Massimo and I reach the building is one that fills me with eagerness to our arrival. My pace quickens.

Once outside the door, I see silhouettes of three, but the voice of one. "May you all experience a day full of God's warmth."

Everyone else replies normally while I stammer within the passing wind, "A-as d-do you, Monsignor Ricci, Father Gallo, and Father Knuckle."

One infinitesimal glance upon the three holy men uncloaks the notion of Father Knuckle's sensitivity to winter's play as well. It is reassuring to recognize I am not alone. The lean man's violent shivers are far worse than mine, that is, because he is not layered as thoroughly as myself. A lady never leaves the house unprepared.

As our stride remains phlegmatic, Vito's words do the same. Now at a safe distance and cleaving Mother's hand, he asks her if God is a furnace. We all chuckle as Mother explains what the Monsignor meant by his parting phrase while I walk, wishing Vito's assumption were the case. If God was but a furnace, I am under the impression that winter would be the most delightful of all seasons, whereas summer would become one of misery.

I tighten my body under the folds of jackets I have layered upon me, and Massimo stares at me bizarrely.

"Your incessant layers and shivers imply the weather is far worse than it truly is."

Betimes, I glare at dark brown eyes similar to mine.

"Massimo, have you forgotten what we have learnt today whilst in the oration of the second reading? If thou bears no kind words to speak, thou shall refrain from opening their mouth."

Betimes, Mother reminds me that she is the mother, not I.

The low growl of her authority silences us all. My low growl of hunger is heard by all. The sound ensues chuckles that originate from Nicodemo's mouth. These overweening chuckles continue, yet find an abrupt halt after a stumble. It is a stumble that evidently caused him to bite his tongue. If God is but a furnace, he is currently working at an impressive rate.

Chills spill in uncouth trills down my spine till Massimo and myself, already detached from the rest of the family and in route to the seminary, once and for all behold the entrance to the institution. Every piece of logic I posses forces myself from running. Massimo quickens his pace to help fulfill my desire to escape the cold.

Inside. God's furnace. Sweet serenity. On my face is a sanguine grin. On Massimo's face is an expression of discontent. Regardless of our faces, we silently perambulate towards the lecture hall with the other students. Most are well-respected members of our society, as well as members of our church. I keep my thoughts curbed; a swatting is not something I particularly desire either—especially in the morning. I am also aware that thoughts can, with ease, become ill when they center on others.

We silently enter the room full of tables and benches. Our first schoolman is, as wonted, behind the podium and ready to begin. Five of us quickly meander to our seats. Massimo sits at the table in the back and nearest the door. Sits there is only he and his friend Acrisio. At a table in the middle section of the room and next to a window is my place. Many are the days my eyes wander idly outside. This usually happens during arithmetic lectures.

The bench quietly creaks to my seating, and two faces gaze upon mine. Both are beautiful, both are lovely, and they are both my dearest friends. Cosma and Penelope bequeath me with twee smirks, but anon, direct their attention to the schoolmaster clearing his throat. Tis time for our Seniore to educate us on theology.

Grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and the theory of music are taught before the day is done. Well, one cannot let our mannerisms class be forgotten either, but tis all information of frivolity since school is over already. I stare bleakly at the grey sky that conceals the bewitching blue sky. As much as I would prefer the blue, the grey fits the tone of Advent nicely. The grey also makes Penelope's blue eyes more extraordinary.

Walking next to my dear friend, I look up to admire her face more. Penelope's face is full and round, her nose straight and pronounced just right, and stunning eyelashes to exemplify the miracle that is her eyes more. She has to be one of the most beautiful girls in all of Napoli. Still a year from courting, like Cosma and myself, and there already are wandering whispers on men awaiting their chance. Such is her luck.

Cosma, like Penelope, is very handsome too. Though not to such an extent as Penelope's comeliness, Cosma has sagacity and wordplay that one cannot escape the fate of becoming enamored by. I myself, am under the impression her light freckles help this charm she posses. The French twist of her hair assists as well.

The three of us stroll along the stone roadway as Massimo and Acrisio follow. Mother and Father have always reminded us that though our city is one most Holy, it does not entail a sole lady's safety. Father has instructed Massimo to escort me at all times, even if I am not alone. Myself walking alone is one thing, but surely the three of us can walk safely together? Even with this argument noted, Mother has told Massimo he must escort us all. Acrisio escorts too simply to walk with Cosma. Penelope is his second cousin.

Right as Cosma finds her laced boots clicking up the steps to her home, Acrisio announces that he and Penelope will make haste in reaching their homes together, and thus, leaving Massimo and myself to finish our jaunt home—by ourselves. Massimo looks displeased. I imagine I am looking cold. It is cold. God's furnace is not present.

Listening to Massimo's huffs and sighs while the day grows colder only increases my desire for home to magically appear. Oh, how I wish we could take a carriage to school and ride one home. School's journey would be very pleasant if such was an option. Of course, these dreams and wishes of carriage rides lead my awareness astray until we finally reach home.

Up the few steps, past the large wooden door, and into our home's foyer is where my icy fingers strip the layers under my long, double-breasted coat. Massimo signals to Mother our arrival. She tells him to fetch Oriana and Nicodemo from their school and for me to help finish preparing lunch. I frown to my brother, who only stares in direction Mother's voice came from. He walks out the door and I walk to the kitchen.

"Tis a travesty that Massimo has been left with the duties that were at one time split between Father, Antonio, and Ciro."

Pausing her rhythmic slicing, Mother's deep brown eyes look into mine, and then return to the broccoli with a soft sigh.

"Thy worry is a beautiful sight, but tis unnecessary. Massimo understands his duty. Tis thee, my precious Damiana, I worry for. Soon our family will be of child. Thy duty to this family shall increase until a suitor comes for thy hand."

On my face is a smile as I dwell on the notion of the day Mother will give birth. I shall see to it the babe's feet never touch the floor. Twas a fight when Mother and Father informed me that Vito was too old to carry. I fear such a battle is forthcoming.

"Marry, I find such an impression, that children are but a duty, to be in opposition to my own. Children are a blest gift that God bestows only to women. Tis something to be gracious of."

Mother tells me I will make a wonderful wife to the man that chooses me. I tell her this will be the case after Penelope and Cosma are courted. She only chuckles and instructs me on how to prepare the dish from her native region of Liguria. I can only refrain myself from rushing with the implication of the end result being a terrible tasting meal. Tis near three in the afternoon, which signifies the allowance of our first meal today. Thank the Lord we only have to fast on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

Massimo returns with Nico and Oriana, and I call forth Nonno, Nonna, and Vito. We sit to pray, and then proceed to eat the small meal. For being but small strudels with a fish soup, the meal was satisfying. Though it is a shame that it wasn't satisfying enough to compel me to study my arithmetic or geometry. I only sat at the writing desk in my room, and gazed upon the lighting streetlamps.

Then, from downstairs, was a knock.

Being instantly compelled to see who would knock on our door at such and hour, I raced. Out of my room and down the hall my feet tromped. Whilst midway to the bottom of the stairwell, I see Massimo a moment from opening the door. My feet slow, and my body barely peaks from—

"Sister, who is it that knocks so late?"

I snort and shoo Oriana away.

"Do be quiet and go back to your studies. I will inform you after they leave."

Her eyebrows furrow, but she obeys. She obeys stomping. I return to eavesdropping, where Massimo is speaking to the guest.

"Oh, Father Knuckle, what brings thee to our home at such at hour?"

"Yes. Do forgive me for appearing at such an hour. But, by chance, would any child of your home, by chance, be missing a pair of gloves?"

I raise an eyebrow. Massimo lightly twitches his shoulder, signaling me to refrain from gripping onto it. I ignore the request and continue my silent inquiry.

"I do believe our Nico mentioned his gloves went missing as I brought him home from the academy earlier, do come in whilst I fetch the boy."

"But of course. I do thank thee for welcoming me at such an hour."

Massimo first waltzes to the kitchen to inform Mother that tis Knuckle who knocked, my presence no longer being on of secrecy. I blush to how childish I now appear, and Father's eyes widen.

"Damiana, I your presence was of ignorance to myself until this time. Please forgive me."

I put forth my hand to greet him, and he clasps it only for a moment, giving it a light squeeze.

"No, do forgive me Father Knuckle for I did not make my presence known to you. But please, allow me to take your coat. Marry, may I offer you some wine or coffee?"

He allows me to hang his coat, but declines the drink as we both vaguely watch Massimo now march up the stairs to fetch that silly Nico. To keep the cold man from feeling unwelcome, I lead him to the furnace Nonno is comfortably sitting near and drinking a cup of wine. He stands to greet Father Knuckle in his thick, northern accent, and Father understands him with ease. I find the action most impressive.

After offering Father a seat and watching Nonno insist he have some wine, I go to the kitchen to fetch a cup for our Pastor. The old man refuses to drink anything else but wine and refuses to let any man within the house to drink nothing else but the best of our stores. I tell Mother and Nonna of the circumstance, and Mother insists I invite him to eat dinner with us. As Nonna phrased it, _it is the least we can do for the Minister, who has traveled to our home only to deliver clumsy Nico's gloves._

I chuckle and agree.

My hand pushes the door from the kitchen, and I can hear Nico thanking Father Knuckle for returning his gloves to him. Nonno sounds as if he is scolding Nico for being mindless, but Lord knows that dear Nico, for certain, does not understand a single fragment of his speech. My head shakes, and I enter the parlor with a smile.

"Father Knuckle, here is a glass to enjoy as much of our wine as thy desires. We would also like to extend an offer for you to eat dinner with us. Your willingness to travel to our home, simply to deliver some gloves, is an act we would prefer to give patronage to."

He kindly takes a cup of wine, enjoys a sip, and then politely declines the offer. Then his stomach growls—audibly. None of them men in the room mutter a single word.

"Just as well, the offer still stands…" I smile. "Though it seems your stomach has made a decision contrary to the words you speak."

Then I realize, to the exact degree, how rude my comment was. Massimo is glaring at me incredulously, as is Nonno. Nico is only staring at his gloves. I immediately begin to prattle an apology, but am interrupted by Father's grinning response.

"Indeed it has. I believe I have no choice but to stay and embellish myself in such a gift. Thank you."

I sigh, exaggerate a blink, and smile. "But of course, Father. I will Mother of your decision."

Thank you, Lord.

Thank you for making some of us more oblivious than others.


	4. Chapter 3

**Aye!  
><strong>School has been sooo hectic. It makes me wonder if I will make my goal happen?

Pray for me lol.

With that said, here is Chapter 3. Hope you like.

**Protocol:  
><strong>word count: 2,676

[I don't own any KHR characters]

No betas for contest writing.

=Advice/Comments are Loved=

**.Captain.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

"And I bid thee, my students, good day. Thou are dismissed."

Still seated at my table, I watch Cosma and Penelope stand, stretching their bodies are we were taught today in our mannerisms class. Just as we were taught in the same lecture, I cover my mouth whilst properly yawning. Little tears creep to the corners of my eyes, and I quickly blink them away. Then I witness Massimo simply appear, giving me a scare. He only smirks in amusement.

Today is the Friday before Advent's third Sunday. It is a fasting day, as well as a day calling for Penance. Mother instructed Massimo and myself, after school instruction of course, to meet them at the Cathedral to reconcile. So today we will walk amongst ourselves. Massimo always seems displeased when it is only we walking together. Am I a bother so much that even walking with me is pleasing? I snort and gather my supplies to leave.

Just as I fasten the books together, Massimo snatches my supplies and asks me to hasten my movements. I respond and thank him as we leave. Given Massimo's kindness of carrying my things, the weather decides that he will not be so kind. Massimo pushes the front door open, and at once, Signore Winter violently blows a fierce wind of icy hostility. I clamp my eyes shut and halt, patiently waiting for the bitter man to leave and scold someone else. From the blast, came another pair of small tears. I wipe them away and thither towards the church.

Twas a miserable peregrination to God's house. Many times did Signore Winter castigate my desire to confess my sins, and many times I considered simply running home. Massimo's presence, many times grabbing my arm before the dreaded man could knock me down, was something I am thankful to Jesus for. Marry, God gives us older brothers for moments as such.

Inside the dimly lit church are many. At the front of the church, near the altar, are many young boys and girls. Nico being among them, they are preparing for their First Reconciliation that will occur this Sunday. Massimo points to where our little brother is, and I smile. His idle mind is focused on the buckles of his shoes. Now he is being scolded. We both chuckle and trail to where Mother, Nonna, Nonno, and Vito are. Mother is still in prayer for her sins, so we only leave our belongings aside theirs.

Massimo and myself then part, walking to separate lines for confessions. I prefer to speak of my sins to Father in a manner in which we are face-to-face. Massimo prefers the confession box. I also prefer face-to-face confessional because I believe the confessional box smells of unpleasantries. Speaking of my sins in a box of unpleasantries is far too overwhelming. It always leads to apologies and tears. Then it ends with many Hail Holy Queens to recite. Tis, by far, easier to confess my sins face-to-face.

This is my assumption, my belief, and my conviction until I am allowed my turn to confess. I am now sitting in front of Father Knuckle, whom is a person I was sinful to recently. I am sitting in front of the man I was planning to confess about. How does a lady properly handle such a situation?

Father Knuckle clears his throat, and lets his eyes avert to the door I am shutting as quietly as I can. I wish to not be heard. I wish for my eyes to be mistaken. I wish—

"Signorina Damiana. Tis an extremely wonderful thing to see you again. Do allow me to relay my thanks once more for sharing such a ultimately satisfying meal."

Am I the only one of my family who confesses like this? I hide this question, along with my dread, under a cheerful response.

"But of course, Father. Please be aware that you are welcome at your leisure."

From this moment I stand. From this moment he sits. No words are spoken, but smiles are relayed. Standing in such a cumbersome moment, I find myself admiring his smile. Tis very bright and cheerful smile. Then I recall the reason I stand in front of Father Knuckle. I also recall why this man was, and still is, the last person I wish to listen to my sins. Still, I clear my throat and sit across from him.

As I sit across from him, I am now bewildered. My voice seems to have left for tea. This leaves me silent in a moment where talking is required. Out of my mouth blows airy chuckles and an airy grin. Father chuckles in return.

"Do not let your heart be distressed. You believe in and adhere to and trust in and rely on God; believe in and adhere to and trust in and rely also on me."

Tis at tis moment, my words recount that their presence is needed—now. I cover my mouth and lightly clear my throat.

"Yes, Father. Do forgive me; lately my mind has been murky as the dirty water left from mopping the floor." I chuckle to my silly comparison and begin. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession and these are my sins."

With Father's nod, signaling me to begin, my mouth runs like the slow moving boats in the marinas. I first reveal my terrible habit of becoming inattentive during Mass. He implores this, and I find myself explaining that this compulsion is one that reigns at all times. He informs me that inattentiveness is a dangerous thing for many reasons outside of sinfulness to the Lord, as well as sinfulness to the Lord. After giving to advice for partaking in small prayer when I am drifting, he asks me to proceed in telling him my other sins.

The way in which Father Knuckle carries on in Penance is very _intriguing_. Dissimilar to Monsignor Ricci or Father Gallo, Father Knuckle treats every one of my sins as a separate thing of importance, wanting to discuss them all to me. I find no qualm with the approach; Father Knuckle communicates his ideas and beliefs in very simple ways, oft referring to marked pages in his personal Bible. The book's leather edges were worn and bent, and the pages have many small notes written inside the margins. The script looked similar to Nico's under-practiced writing, but I am more enthralled to the idea that Father didn't find his writing and underlining sinful. To mark in one's Bible is to desecrate the word of God, as my theology schoolmaster says.

"Doth have any more to account for?"

I bite the corner of my lip, knowing that now is the time I have to account for my sin towards the man in front of me. Tis a hard thing to muster the courage to reveal.

"Yes Father. Twas a moment that occurred but a few weeks ago. To a respectable man came words of utmost disrespect. They came from I." I sigh and clasp my hands. "Twas not intentional, and I sincerely desired to apologize, but as the words began to spill out of my mouth, he simply responded. There were no tones of anger and no expressions of dismay in his reaction. So I simply said noting…" My eyes break away from his for a moment. "I am truly remorseful that I said nothing…"

His honey-stained eyes kept airs of gentleness as he smiled. "If the moment is something that pains your heart so full of regret, then would not the best course of action be to confide in the person you feel these feelings?"

Lord, I am sure you are finding some amusement in the predicament I now face.

I nod and warmly express to him my appreciation for unclouding what was clouding my heart so. He reveals that his maximum amount of understanding is due to God's almighty grace. His answer leads me to the notion I shall confess my sins to him moreso since he chooses adjectives of most amusing in nature. Then I become aware of the penetrating stare his eyes are giving me. Tis a stare that exemplifies his awareness of what I dare not say.

The stare persists, and his head tilts forward.

My jaw clenches and my face heats. He knows there is a sin I dare not speak.

His small lips purse; Father Knuckle is waiting.

Tis a sin of great disgust. Tis a sin I cannot ask forgiveness for.

Father Knuckle leans his body forward, imploring if I have more that I wish to discuss. My heart breaks. My eyes close. My lips tremble. And my hands quickly cover my face to hide such uncouth behavior. Tis a sin far worse than all others I spoke of. It is one that aches deep and one that I wish wasn't there.

I feel two large lightly press against my upper arms. "Do forgive me! Please do not cry! I am but unaware of what I've done to cause you such extreme unhappiness!"

I open my fingers to peek onto his worried expression. "Excuse me?"

Father Knuckle sits back and scratches his scalp in an exasperated manner, his eyes shifting all about the room. My fingers press away my tears and reveal my unsightliness. He immediately apologizes, explaining how he was reading a new text about effective approaches to performing effective penance. I found the fact of there being texts about such subjects more fascinating than our current conundrum. Of course, Father quickly pulls the book out and tells me all about it. On is face was the most beautiful expression of splendor and excitement. Like a child retelling of his most cherished memory. I quietly listened to him explain his _extreme interest_ in the book. It is now that Father realizes that he has gone off topic in talking about himself. I told him such action was of no bother since it helped in calming my spirit.

"Damiana, do forgive me. I was merely practicing an exercise I read in the text. Tis supposed to be a way to make the parishioner to feel more at ease in telling me their sins." His finger scratches his temple. "Surely I've made a mistake somewhere…"

"Father, twas I, who bears a thoroughly guilty conscience. Your exercise was a parlay that worked most effectively. Though I fell unto the perception you knew I was refraining to admit something, your expression was one that illustrated immense gentility and cognition. Your practice went splendidly."

Father Knuckle's expression, after what I believe is becoming fully aware of my words, morphed into of self-satisfaction and conceit. Twas a sight most beguiling. In his left hand covered in white bandaging was the book he thoroughly explained to me while his left hand of bandaging was clenched tightly.

Then, as if I wasn't present, Knuckle speaks.

"God, at this moment I am full of your ultimate passion. Tis your everlasting passion and almighty resolution that has brought me thus far. Tis your everlasting passion and almighty resolution that will help me guide others into the light."

Oh, to have such extreme fervor towards the Lord.

I can only wish to have such a beautiful relationship with God.

Right as I am only witnessing such a marvel, Father Knuckle looks back to be, placing his hand on top of mine. In his eyes is fiery passion. All of his being radiated in this passion. I swallowed my instant feeling of being overwhelmed by such emotions.

"Dear child of God, do tell me that which fills thy heart with so much pain, for one cannot bask in the warmth of God's love without admitting to all of their sins."

For a moment I breathe. I breathe to compose myself, and I breathe to collect my reasoning. Tis a sin that is most grievous. I fear tis a sin that I am unworthy of forgiveness for. I sigh and ball my hands into worried fists.

"The book of Proverbs states: 'If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself: but if thou scornest, thou alone shalt bear it…' In my heart is scorn… Tis a terrible and unwanted scorn towards my Father. In my mind is the awareness that such scorn is a mortal sin, but my heart pangs so. He lost everything due to Italy's current state. Our family has lost its wealth, its servants, and its comfort. I wish these things were not of such importance to myself, but these things being lost are something that dispirits me. Tis a grave sin to be so confounded by materialism, but tis a greater sin to be scornful of my Father for that which he had no control of. For this I am truly ashamed of myself."

My sobs and tears are veiled and snuffed by my covering hands right after saying such disgusting things. I hear Father only breathe. The fact he doesn't speak is only makes my embarrassment burn hotter, that is, until I feel a hand lightly pat my head.

"No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it."

After a few minutes of discussing the particulars of my family's situation and pleading with him to discuss it with no one, he reminds me of the Canon Law strictly forbidding him from talking about any one person's confessions. I then ask him to not bear harsh judgment on my family for what I have spoken. He then informs me that as Jesus would bear no such judgment on other no matter their descent, he follows the same path. It is a statement that fills my heart with relief.

From here the Minister instructs me to read over the First Book of Corinthians for absolution of my sins. I immediately inquire of the prayers to recite as well, but he says the fact I want no forgiveness for my sins makes me worthy of being set free of my sins. Such logic does not seem very sensible, but I question no more and recite my Act of Contrition. Father Knuckle is the man of God, not I. Surely, he understands more than I.

"God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

At the same time, we both say, "Amen."

But Father moves to adjust himself in his seat, leaning forward and inviting me to give Thanks to the Lord, for he is good:

"May the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and of all the saints, whatever good you do and suffering you endure, heal your sins, help you to grow in holiness, and reward you with eternal life."

"Amen, Father."

My body stands as he tells me to go in peace with the Lord. I tell him to do the same despite knowing such words are not necessary. He takes the comment with a pleased smirk. But right as I am to exit the confessional room, I decide to loosen myself of the last of my shackles.

"Father, will you accept my apology?"

His expression becomes blank, and his head tilts. "Apology?"

"Yes. The other night when you were over, I made a remark of distasteful regard. Will you forgive me?"

He grins wildly. "But of course."

I grin back. "Thank you very much. Your acceptance of my apology is a notion that fills me with great relief."

He continues to grin, and so do I.


	5. Chapter 4

**Hello Kids**  
>I finally got the fourth chapter ready for you guys.<p>

word count: 2,378

[I do not own any KHR characters]

no betas since this is contest writing.

=Advice/Comments are Loved=

**.Captain.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

They burn. They throb.

Under the cool flowing water from the kitchen's faucet are my fingers. From my mouth escapes whimpers for my usual clumsiness. From my ears is the perception of Nonna's soft voice. She's telling my mother that the family will have to begin their prayers now if I am ever to court. Mother, along with my few aunts and female cousins that have come over for dinner all laugh and gently jeer. I ignore her claim with a furrowing of my eyebrows. Does one's occasional clumsiness really make them unattractive?

The kitchen door nearly blasts open with three curious heads now investigating the kitchen full of women. From the parlor is Massimo's voice declaring that I have probably done something graceless. My back stays faced to the heads of Vito, Nico, and Father Knuckle to hide my embarrassment.

Of course, little Vito had to invite Father Knuckle without the Mother's consent. We were to invite Nico and Oriana's Schoolmaster this year. Of course, since Father Knuckle already accepted the invitation, and we could not be so rude to rescind. Oriana was very displeased that Knuckle could attend as her schoolmaster could not, but Nicodemo did not seem to mind. And of course, as Vito was spanked for the action, he had to declare he only wanted his tummy to be blessed from the yucky fish Mother serves on _La Vigilia_. No one dare laugh more so after such a comment. I quickly and silently asked God's forgiveness for half agreeing with Vito.

Then in my arms as he cried, Vito asked if Father Knuckle would bless is pained bottom.

Regretfully I had to inform him that asking such a question would be most rude.

Vito only frowned to the information.

But as my hands are now feeling better, Father is standing beside me, inspecting them and asking for some bandaging. I find the action very embarrassing, and in turn, try to tell Father that my hands are quite fine. He believes I need treatment to the max. The women, along with Nonna all smile and reassure him I need no such assistance as well. Father Knuckle doesn't seem to understand what we are trying to politely imply. He still says that I should refrain from cooking. I can feel my cheeks beginning to burn.

Though the notion to help me is commendable, I tell him my hands are fine and that he should enjoy himself in the parlor. Mother and my Aunts go back to cooking. Father Knuckle finally agrees, but still takes the time to ask God to heal my hands. Oriana, along with a few of my other cousin simply watch as my cheeks begin to flush further from embarrassment; he is treating me as a child.

Father ends his small prayer and unclasps my hand. I pull it away and thank him once more, even more embarrassed. Never have I seen a priest ask for something so simple of the Lord. Sadly, I feel father Knuckle is unaware of what his actions have caused. I, more likely than not, will have to endure tactless jibes and sneers all night from the women. So. Embarrassed. Nico simply walks back into the parlor, uninterested, and Vito pulls Father Knuckle out of the kitchen. He tells Father that he has many things needing blessing. Mother gives him a glare.

"Father," asks Vito, "is there any way to bless something now, for something that will happen later?"

Father's head cocks to the side.

Vito looks back to Mother, whose stare has become sharper, and tells Father never mind. He then returns to pulling the priest back to the parlor. My thoughts only lingering now on the number of spankings Vito will get tomorrow. The door shuts, and Oriana and one of my cousin's similar to Oriana's age can be heard chuckling as they finish preparing the antipasti dishes. Mother says nothing. The women continue their banter. And I pray that Vito will be able to sit during Midnight Mass.

In spite of my earlier incident with burning my fingers on the hot plate of baccala, I still manage to finish preparing all that I was asked. So we all sit in the dining room whilst in prayer. In front of us all is nine different types of fish, seven Father Knuckle gladly leads us, asking for God to bless our lovely meal; to help us proclaim and celebrate the birth of Mary, Jesus, and John the Baptist alike; and to protect Father, Antonio, and Ciro as they work hard in America. I found the part about them very pleasing. I find it to be even more pleasing that our letters to them were received in a timely manner, and they were able to return letters to us before Christmas.

Mother told us to abstain from reading our letter till after Mass, but after much begging and pleading she gave us the chance to read some. The only problem was that we were told to choose one person to read theirs. None of us looked pleased after such a stipulation was set. Through an uproarious deliberation in the parlor that became a room full of laughs, yells, and temper tantrums, we came to the conclusion that Mother should read hers. Us children could not decide who was more deserving—Nico happily claimed he was. Hence, his new title that Nonno is using to call him even now. Mother can only hake her head to it.

In spite of her distaste to Nico's new name from Nonno (idiota), Mother was moved to tears from Antonio's, Ciro's, and Father's Christmas letters. The three men vaguely told her they are living in a land by the name of New York because Ciro refused to travel any farther. From what they wrote, we have learned there is a large community of Italians there that are very helpful and welcoming to people who have just sailed over. Tis very reassuring to hear they are not alone over there.

They also tell her how grateful they are to have been blessed with a Mother as she. Antonio tells her about how he has gotten into leather making, and that there is a woman he might have fallen for. Mother, Nonna, Oriana, and I found this as spectacular news. Ciro claimed that there are too many women in the world to pick only one, and that he hasn't found any jobs worth his time. Mother shook her head to Ciro's arrogance. We were all very happy to hear our brothers' letter, but then let down. She would not reveal what Father's letter said.

Her secrecy leaves me full of curiosity.

Then on my arm is a pinch. Tis not painful yet pressured enough to draw attention. I look over to Oriana, who is sending my glance to Mother. The slender woman is not even looking at me, but I'm sure she was. I was drifting again. My eyes close and I say a small prayer to myself before coming back into the conversation.

Opening my eyes, I see Father Knuckle is telling those listening about his dear friends that live in northern Italy. According to the priest, he would not be the man he is today without those companions. These companions will be accompanying him later to view the living Nativities around Napoli. The children listening to his words all stare in wonder as I smile, happy to hear of such optimism. Whilst the room remains loud and jovial through the echoes of many voices, I can only hope that God should bestow myself with close and great friends like that; more friends like Cosma and Penelope.

Dinner ends and Knuckle bids us many thanks and praise for the meal as he departs to prepare for the Midnight Mass that will occur in a few hours. Outside of the house we all stand to bid him farewell. Oriana mentions her sadness that her schoolmaster traveled to Messina for the holidays. Mother lightly pats her head, reassuring her that we will invite him again next year. This reassurance makes me immediately wonder how long it will be until I see my Father and brothers again. I stand alone, mulling on this thought. Oh, how I miss Father and my brothers. Lord, please guide them safely.

"Sister Damiana."

I look behind me. Massimo is at the door and looking down to me.

"I imagine thee to be very cold right now, especially outside on such a night without a jacket. Suppose I am correct?"

Tis now I feel winter's tough grip on my sleeves. My jaw begins to tremble. I also realize that I am the only one outside still.

"Yes, thou are correct in thy assumption. I fear my mind has caught the best of me once more."

He rolls his eyes as I race inside the house. The door lightly shuts, and I smile to my older brother for being so considerate. Massimo only tells me to make haste in preparation for our outing. Then I pat my forehead and sigh. How could I forget of the living Nativity Scene that will take place this evening! Penelope was chosen to play the Virgin Mary! I pinch my cheek and run up the stairs. Shame on me, for forgetting something so important to dear Penelope.

Our family's numbers is greater than usual tonight. On the roads of stone walk twenty more. My mother's three sisters and their families have joined us tonight, along with father's sister and two brothers, their families as well. All of us calmly promenade to the public square. Holding Vito's hand, I help him practice his counting. We count every streetlamp on the way. He has gotten very good at it. At only four, the boy can already enumerate to twenty.

Right as Nicodemo teases Vito for not knowing twenty-one is the next number, he is reminded of what happens when one walks and talks at once. He bites his tongue and begins to whine at once. All around are little chuckles to Nico's cumbersome nature, and the green-eyed boy only laughs along after a second more of whimpers. Then I notice, outside of our laughter and in the distance, voices of little children caroling to the music of bagpipers and flute players who have traveled from the mountains. Their songs are pleasant and cheerful. I naturally hum along to the familiar tune.

As we get closer to the square, we learn that we did not come early enough to procure positions in the front. The places we did get, though, are good enough that we will be able to see. Massimo will have to sit Vito on his shoulders to see. After watching the little boy rise to new heights, my eyes wander through the many denizens around us as my ears are confounded by the many voices around me. Some are faces I recognize, but there are plenty whose faces are a mystery. Napoli is such a grand city. Tis a shame that I might not marry and raise a family of my own in this beautiful place, but the prospect of courting in America is a very romantic idea as well. Surely there are plenty of charming men there to—

"Damiana!"

I turn right to see Cosma. With pink cheeks from the cold outside, she happily grabs my hand.

"Cosma. Tis such a surprise to see you at this hour!" I then notice Acrisio behind her. "And you as well _Acrisio_."

Cosma's face flushes a little more. Acrisio wears a most conceited of smirks.

For a moment do Massimo and I converse with Cosma and Acrisio. They came with their families to see Penelope in this Nativity. Seeing them together on such an occasion has caught me very unawares. They must be getting closer outside of lessons. This is not something that can be taken as something completely unknown. Acrisio has fancied Cosma for a very long time, and Cosma will be turning eighteen next month. She will be the first to begin courting. It seems Acrisio does not want to allow the any one else the opportunity to steal her heart.

Still—Acrisio escorting Cosma—what news!

I keep my boundless excitement hidden as I watch Acrisio escort Cosma back to her family. Massimo gives me a most suspecting look. I stick my tongue out at him, and then feel Mother pull my ear for the unsightly action. Nicodemo finds it a good moment to laugh, informing everyone present of my scolding. Tis a moment I wish I could bury my head. Dear, how I keep getting embarrassed this evening.

The Nativity's procession begins and the crowd silences. I watch a young man begin to narrate, and I whisper to Massimo about how beautiful Penelope looks. With a peculiar smirk, he shushes me and continues to watch. Never has Massimo found the Nativity amusing, why such a reaction today? I roll my eyes and focus back to the little boy playing the Shepard.

Sadly, as interested as I am in the Nativity, my mind cannot stop wandering, adrift in various thoughts. Will I ever be asked to participate in the Living Nativity? Will anyone else I know be asked? What reading will be orated during Midnight Mass? Tis not only my mind, but my eyes as well. Neither will refrain from idle drifting.

As my eyes gaze upon people I know, such as the baker and the local doctor, I happen to find Father Knuckle too. He is but a few meters away, but standing on a balcony overhead. Of course he is with Father Gallo and Monsignor Ricci, but there are other men present with them. The three are all very handsome. They all look to be of high class.

I would stare more, but I feel a light grasp of my hand. My eyes first move to my hand, and then to the arm connected to it. Tis Oriana, looking at me innocently.

"Mother will be displeased to see you aren't paying attention."

I nod and smile. "Thank you, Oriana. What have I missed?"

"Dear Sister, the Nativity has just ended."

My hand covers my face solemnly. "Oh dear. How will I explain this to Penelope?"


	6. Chapter 5

**Howdy howdy!  
><strong>yep, it really has been a bit since I could get to posting one of these chapters.

either way, enjoying the way it is unfolding and hoping you like it too. Here's chapter 5

**Protocol:  
><strong>word count: 2,742

[I do not own any KHR characters]

no betas since this is contest writing  
>PM me if you are interested in being on my team of vigilante betas after the contest<br>I always welcome scary characters lol

=Advice/comments are loved=

**.Captain.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

"TOMBOLA!"

All in the parlor stare at the little boy who is screaming and shouting tombola repeatedly. I only chuckle to as Vito waves around what was my tombola card only a few moments ago. That mischievous Massimo was calling out all the numbers by their nicknames, and with Vito only being four, he couldn't even tell what number to mark on his sheet. Tombola is a game that I have much luck in, so I just traded cards with him as soon as I had marked out all of the numbers on my sheet.

Massimo glares at Vito and I playfully. "This is a win I do not recognize. That card is Damiana's."

I knew he would try this. How Massimo loves to pick on Vito and Nicodemo. I grin.

"Dearest brother, were you never made aware? Vito and I are a team."

"Oh? I was not made aware. The game goes on."

The room yells their opinions in agreement as the opposition yells against them at similar decibels. Our family that has gathered with us once more for the Epiphany seems to be enjoying this. We are obviously celebrating the coming new year as loudly as we can.

I lightly tap my lip as my grin becomes larger. "Then let us ask Nonno to make the decision, for I see Vito and I's alliance to be most fair in consideration to your confusing oration of the numbers."

The room grows silent as we all look to Nonno for his opinion. He stares at us all with one slowly spanning glance. We are all burning in anticipation for his answer, especially I. Oh how I wish to win this.

The old man clears his gruff throat. His cup of wine tips to his lips. He coughs in his handkerchief. We wordlessly watch.

"The smartest ally with the best."

The crowd within the parlor becomes rampant. I grin wildly to Massimo's stare. The word to best describe it is one a lady would never speak. But, to be candid, the next best word to describe his expression is vexed. He must be full of sour feelings, losing to me. Sinful as it is, it feels brilliant to win by such clever means.

Of course, the game goes on for some time more, enough for all the children to win at least once. Oriana is surprisingly full of luck, winning four times. Nico was caught cheating four times. Four times, did he and Mother leave the parlor. Four times, did Nico return holding his bottom. I only shake my head in distaste; nearing eight, he should know better.

When we all finally grew tired of playing Tombola, Mother suggested that we all promenade to the piazza where there will be fireworks and dancing. As my aunts and cousins alike began to voice their appeal to the idea, I began to purse my lips. Tis always on the Epiphany that Antonio would dance with I. Ciro would be my partner for one or two songs, but Antonio would be the one to dance with me the night through. I can feel my cheeks warming as I reflect more. All of my skill and enjoyment for dance is due to Antonio. Now realizing how glazed my vision has become, I immediately carry myself out of the parlor to not show everyone my tears. Who will I dance with tonight?

I fear that no one will tell me to place my feet atop his.

Only for a few moments did I stand in the bathroom downstairs to compose myself. I am very pleased to learn that no one noticed my quick exit; walking into the kitchen to find Mother, she was most surprised to my disappearance. Then again, there are nearly forty people present on this night. Surely I am not the most important person present. Tis most likely that no one even noticed.

While everyone begins to exit in the foyer, I wander into the parlor to apprise Nonno, telling him that we are all leaving as Mother suggested. He only nods and takes another sip of wine out of his favored cup. As I bid him farewell and tell him to not be shy in joining us, I feel his hand lightly grasp mine. My face turns back to his. He gestures me to move closer to him with simple curl of his fingers. His dark eyes look serious. I smile and allow him to whisper in my ear.

His soft yet gruff voice annunciated every syllable of his secret clearly.

"There is no need for you to cry, Antonio is not the only man who can dance."

I purse my lips again. Tis a surprise that Nonno saw me at such an embarrassing moment.

"Of course Nonno, but it would be most pleasing to dance with you."

His serious expression twists to form a beautiful smile that is rarely seen. His happiness is infectious, and in turn, is making me smile. Who am I—to be so special—to receive such kind words from Nonno. It makes this night seem all the more special. I warmly clasp his hands in mine.

"_Ti voglio tanto bene, Nonno."_

"_Ti voglio tanto bene, mia nipote."_

Tis also a rare occasion, hearing Nonno tell someone that he loves them.

* * *

><p>As the clicking of my shoes against the stone roadway remains a steady beat, I hum quietly the song of La Befana. I am alone, so the song is making my journey less eerie. Massimo had already left with the majority of my family when Mother asked me to deliver some food and proseco to our pastors at the church. In spite of my utterance of how scary the journey sounded, Mother told me that the Lord would guide me safely for this night is a holy night.<p>

Oh, Lord, please let me be safe.

Please make it less cold out too.

My feet hasten to the never-ending anxiety that runs through my veins. Though Massimo's constantly huffing and puffing as we walk together (which is something that I find very trying), his presence is very calming. Times are harsh, which is making some forget the Lord. These people do terrible things to women, so I have heard. Father told me to be mindful of suspicious men. Remembering Father's stoic expression when saying this is making my wish of Massimo's company stronger.

Although I carry this fear, tis not long till I the church comes to view. Right as I walk up the steps to the large cathedral, one of the massive doors opens, and the bodies of four men appear in front of me. Tis everything within my knowledge that keeps me from dropping the hot food and the sparkling wine in my hands. To see three exceedingly handsome men exit the church at this time is something that truly surprised me. Thank goodness Father Knuckle appeared right after them. Being in the presence of these three men would be extremely cumbersome without Father present, seeing as I have never seen any of these men in my life.

As I stand taken aback by the show of such handsome men, one with wildly untamed blonde hair and golden eyes sees me. He nearly jumps as high as I did, but lightly chuckles to the scare. One of the men with him, who only has one eye open, chuckles with him.

"Please excuse me, I jumped only because you surprised me."

The blonde-haired man's voice is laced with the same colloquialisms Nonno speaks with, but his speech is very clear and refined. His clothing is of the same nature though I find his black cape to be something most anomalous. Is he royalty of some sort? Tis now that I realize he is awaiting my response, but do not find the opportunity to answer. Father Knuckle succeeds in speaking before I.

"Signorina Damiana. What could possibly bring you to the church so extremely late on such a night? Is something the matter?"

I smile, unsure whom I should answer first. But knowing that the caped man is someone who I am most certainly not acquainted with, I choose to answer Father Knuckle.

"Father, do forgive me for coming at such a late hour. I am afraid there is nothing to cause alarm… But I now fear that I am interrupting something, seeing how you are in the company of others."

Father Knuckle quickly tells me that I am not interrupting anything, but he and his friends are in a slight need to press on. He goes on to say there has been a very devastating earthquake in Messina, according to his dear friend Giotto, and he is off with his friends to try and help out. There is instant fear for Oriana and Nicodemo's schoolmaster.

"Oh dear! Then do make haste! Schoolmaster Mannigiano is currently down there on holiday." I cover my mouth for a moment. "I now fear the worst for him…"

Father Knuckle's expression becomes one of surprise. "That is terrible news to the max, but all we can do is pray that the Lord kept him safe."

"Knuckle, we must go."

I look at the blonde haired man. Then my eyes slide back to Father Knuckle.

"Yes, do forgive me for impeding on your long journey." Then I remember the warm lentils, spiced sausage, and proseco I am currently carrying. "Marry, it would be most pleasing for you to take this food for your journey. Tis a long way to Messina from here. Surely you will all get hungry."

One of the men, obviously the youngest and somehow having green hair, shifts his body and looks at me rudely. Still looking around with one eye open, I hear him mutter, "I'm not eating that…"

Father Knuckle punches the man in the arm. The green-eyed man cringes and grips onto the spot Father Knuckle's fist made contact. I subdue my desire to chuckle. The blonde haired man, along with the redhead standing to his right both give the boy smug glances before graciously taking my offer.

Right as I am responding to Father Knuckle's thanks, my eyes take notice of the red haired man saying something to the rude, green-eyed man. I once found the red-haired man very attractive, but now seeing those atrocious designs on the right side of his face leaves me fearful of him. I've of only read of demons possessing such fearsome marks.

Tis at the moment I am thinking terrible thoughts about the tall man with a very attractive smirk, he calmly puts his hands out to take the food and wine from me. I smile to the man as I silently ask God to forgive me for being so cruel. Tis a terrible action to judge the man without even knowing his name, but the sight of those scars is oh so hair rising.

Father Knuckle now realizes he has not yet acquainted me with the men in front of me.

"Do forgive me Damiana. I extremely forgot my manners!" He gestures his hands to the three men. "These are my dearest friends from the North that I spoke of on Christmas Eve."

From here he points to the blonde man wearing a classy black suit with pinstripes and the cape. Father Knuckle tells me his name is Giotto. Though I would feel more comfortable knowing his last name too, Father Knuckle doesn't tell me what it is. So I give Giotto my hand, telling him tis a pleasure to meet him. He returns the notion with his gentle yet strong voice.

Next he points to the very rude young man with green hair. Father Knuckle tells me his name is Lampo Bovino. I am most glad that Father gave me his surname. I put out my hand to properly greet Mr. Bovino, but he arrogantly does not give me the honor of taking my hand. Still I smile, nod, and tell him tis a pleasure to make his acquaintance. He says nothing in response.

Finally Father Knuckle acquaints me with the tall man with red hair and the scars. Tis a moment I am still not prepared for.

"And this my friend who simply goes by the name G."

I cock my eyebrow to the peculiar name. "G?"

Father Knuckle looks back at the man. "Well… yes, I only know him as G."

"I see. Tis a great pleasure to meet you _G_."

The man responds in a very suave and smooth voice, charming like Ciro's. "The pleasure is mine…"

G looks into my eyes, realizing that Father Knuckle has not told them my full name. I only chuckle and answer for the pastor.

"Damiana Agostina Trussardi."

My hand still clasped in his large hand, G finishes wearing his handsome smirk from earlier. "The pleasure is mine, Signorina Trussardi."

Those peculiar good looks, that peculiar voice full of charm, and those peculiar scars. Lord, I am not sure of this man in front of me. In spite of this, I promise to not throw stones, for only the sinless shall he the first to throw stones.

After becoming acquainted with Father Knuckle's companions, I told them to have a safe trip and began my departure to the piazza. Father Knuckle, along with Giotto, stopped and asked to escort me. Giotto's reasoning is the same as Father Knuckle's, being that young girls should not travel alone. I find their proposition very reassuring, and allow them to do so, but tell them tis not necessary since they need to be leaving. With this said, Giotto asks G to escort me as they make haste to the train station. According to Gritto and Father Knuckle alike, my safety is most assured to them all if G chaperones.

Oh dear, the peculiar man will escort me…

The reassuring feeling is now gone with the passing wind.

As the two of us walk towards the piazza, G slips his hand in his pocket in the sliest of fashions. Listening to our feet tap against the cobblestone below us, instant dread of a knife or gun or any type of weapon flashes into my mind. But G's hand comes back into view, holding a cigarette case instead. I sigh and lightly touch my forehead. How I wish I possessed nerves of steel, or do I wish…

"Damiana!"

I look up, hearing Massimo's voice. G puts his arm in front of me and slides his hand inside his jacket. His face slightly turns to mine as his eyes slide to mine. They are full of suspicion. Then the lit cigarette in his mouth bounces to the syllables of his speech.

"Do you know the boy in front of us?"

G's tone is very serious—nothing like before.

I stammer. "Y-yes Signore G. The man in front of you is my brother. M-Massimo is the one who usually escorts me."

Massimo comes forward with fierce eyes towards G, and scarred man is easily mirroring my brother's attempt of intimidation. G happens to look more intimidating since he is a head taller than Massimo. His facial markings heighten his intimidation as well. Thank goodness Massimo is here to fetch me. I fear what could have possibly happened if I were to be alone with G any longer.

I thoughtlessly speak out loud. "Did I just hear something clicking?"

Massimo instantly grabs my hands and yanks me towards him.

Both men exchange words and come to an understanding after I ask Massimo to be calm. G explained that he only pulled the hammer back on his pistol in case Massimo happened to be someone deviant. After G apologizes many times for acting so rash, I find myself unable to refrain from clutching Massimo's arm. Even thoughts of dancing no longer seem delightful. I shall avoid G if he should come around any longer, especially after hearing that clicking sound come from his jacket. Massimo and G shake hands, thanking each other for their understanding before parting our separate ways. G softly bids me farewell, and I do the same. I make sure to not show any fear towards him since he kindly escorted me to Massimo.

As Massimo and I walk back to the piazza, I thank him for being my brother. He thanks me for being a lady of luck—after calling me an idiot. Then he asks to be my dance partner for the evening.

How could I not say yes.


End file.
